Here's another good one, Coleridge, really rolls off the ol' tongue (from here)

Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Well, well, well. Still at it, eh? And people say that I don't know when to quit! You know, my friends, sheer tenacity can be a real virtue...when it is applied to what could be termed...a useful project. A good idea. A gift to the world. That sort of thing.

This thread...(cough, cough)...does not qualify as any of those. Nope. Sorry. In the race of life this thread staggers in desperately near to the end of the pack, alongside a lame turtle and a guy in a wheelchair who is trying to get his picture on the cover of "People Magazine". Not that I'm against such things. No indeed. I will always give moral support to those who struggle to overcome innate disadvantages such as a disability, a lack of education, or plain old sheer stupidity. Such people also stand and serve. They may not serve terribly well...but they serve.

Which reminds me, my daughter won the tennis meet in Huntsville, Alabama last Saturday. She can really serve. There are good genes in that girl, let me tell you. You can see her on my website. Just look it up.

Anyway, I was sort of hoping that a little word or two from me would be enough to convince all you folks of the futility of pushing this whole Mother of All BS nonsense any further...but I'm not going to bet the farm on it. Oh...no...I'm not that foolish. I wasn't born last Wednesday.

I figure that you will pay no attention to my good advice, and you will persist in this...exercise...in complete asininity. "Asininity". Now there's a word for you. I like the ring of that. I'm going to have to see if they can work it into an episode of "Boston Legal". That's my new show, as you of course must know. Be sure to watch it. It's great.

So, here's a smile and a wink from your Captain, the guy who steps down every now and then from his busy life to give you a little encouragement and advice along the way...the guy who isn't too proud to get down and chew the fat with the locals...the guy who is proud to be both Canadian AND a resident of the USA...your pal...your guiding light on the path of life.

Think large, breathe deep, and have a coke on me. You people are great. I love you. And I say that from the bottom of my heart...if not my pocketbook. The tear in my eye is not a fake one. Oh no, not me. I live the parts I play.

once again - our stratagy worked! the Big BS is now stuck with the ultimate in unfortunate posts, # 10,000! why shortly he will find himself a no-talent, ageing, out of work, bumbling, stuttering,incompetent.

AWright!!! Bill came through! I knew I could count on him. This thread has finally reached its peak moment, and can now move gracefully into its dotage, having achieved all that BS can possibly achieve. Sheesh. I got so excited that I almost had a coronary. I gotta go and lie down or something.

He forsook all his learning And his Library post And from honest man's earnings He gave up the ghost, He went to his Mother To learn how to sin, And the answer she gave him Made his poor brain to spin.

And it's hands on your sheathes lads, And keep the blades free, On your guard for a visit From Bold Raparee!

And if you are lucky As you snoop around You'll discover he story Of Bad Leroi Brown." Now sharpen your pencil And listen quite well, And you'll soon to be The librarian from hell."

And she replied, "Well, you just take care when you do it. And if some of your little piggies are sliced off we'll have them sewn back on. Now put on your Care Bears pajamas, brush your teethies, say your prayers, and climb into the world of sweet dreams."

And so I have done just as Mother suggested. I have thirty-two guns in my pocket for fun, and it's quite a burden. My pants fall down, for one thing. And the cord from the razor keeps getting all tangled up in bushes and things and sometimes I even step on it and trip myself.

But as soon as I change my name to Leroy Brown I'll be the Baddest Man in the Whole Damn Town. First though I suppose I have to determine whether or not there is an "E" on the end of Brown. And whether or not "Leroy" is "Lee Roy" "LeRoy" "Le Roy" or some other variant.

Your assistance would be appreciated.

Thank you for helping me to become the Baddest Man in the Whole Damn Town.

And it's hands on your sheathes lads, And keep the blades free, On your guard for a visit From Bold Raparee!

This bold man of books Took Counsel from Ma And he swore he would soon live Outside of the law. He got him a razor 110 volts A.C. Shoved it into his Weejums Which were 10 triple-E.

Then he went to a gun fair To follow his fate And he brought back a carload Of monstrous weight! There were handguns and air-guns Both stainless and blued Though he limped, when he'd heft 'em, From the Braun in his shoe.

And it's hands on your sheathes lads, And keep the blades free, On your guard for a visit From Bold Raparee!

And the weight of those weapons Forced his pants to the floor And he cursed and he cried And he sweated and swore Then he found his solution! It made his heart dance! He bought eight pairs of braces Clipped all 'round his pants.

And it's hands on your sheathes lads, And keep the blades free, On your guard for a visit From Bold Raparee!

Well by my count, SRS' last is 10,025. That makes mine 10,018. As well as 10, 017, 10,016, 10,015, 10,014, 10,013, 10,012, 10, 011 and even, dare I say it, 10,010. That last one is binary 18! So there.

I wish to inform one and all on this, the ne plus ultra of threads, that I have purchased and should receive either today or tomorrow a smallsword. It will work far better than the razor in my shoe, which keeps turning on and has shaved and/or shaven all of the hair off both feet (I change shoes so that it will wear evenly). Said smallsword is pointy, made from high carbon steel with continuous tang, has a wire-wrapped hilt with shell guard and knucklebow, and can be made very sharp indeed. Yes, it comes with a scabbrd, and I have purchased a frog so that I can wear it.

I am also not carrying the 32 guns, having discovered that Mom most likely meant a pistol of .32 caliber (7.65 mm), a cartridge of little or no stopping power and for which I have little use. Besides three of the guns leaked and made the powder in the other all wet and they wouldn't fire.

Amos, did you know that the poem with which you have honored me can be sung to the tune of "Bonnie Dundee?" Or, if you prefer, "Riding A Raid?" Or "Lords of the Cam?"

But lo! Another poem about me ('tho I don't like to brag):

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding- riding-riding- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching- King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say- Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

Trot-trot; trot-trot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Trot-trot, trot-trot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

Trot-trot, in the frosty silence! Trot-trot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, With her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back,he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding- riding-riding- A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard, And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

The South wind blew so coldly, and made men's eyebrows freeze The Man in the Moon smiled grimly, with a face like a Cheshire cheese 'Twas Christmas day in the workhouse where Oliver asked for more And the highwayman came riding, riding, riding Dick Turpentine came riding, up to the old inn door.

He'd a top hat on his forehead, a dress shirt on his chest With a pair of Oxford trousers, and a woollen undervest And he rode as fast as a motor - well as fast as a ford will do For he loved the Landlord's porter, the landlord's nut-brown porter Not to speak of the landlord's daughter, the lady who's known as Loo.

He tapped with his fist on the shutters, but locked was the old inn door So he stood 'neath the window and whistled, "It ain't gonna rain no more." And then the window opened, and Loo's sweet face popped out And the landlord stood and listened, he shivered there as he listened Mute as a cat he listened, and he heard the robber shout,

"One drink, my bonny sweetheart, of porter as brown as your curls I'm after a fat dowager, who'd got a string of pearls But only two pubs I'm passing, and there the drink's not strong So I'll come back here for another, and another, and another For I daren't go home to mother, cos the p'lice'll have me before long."

He stood upright in the stirrups so that he could reach for the glass But he couldn't quite reach to the window, and it made him feel such an ass So he sat on his horse in the moonlight, sat with his mouth open wide While Loo, the landlord's daughter, took a hefty mug of porter And bending o'er his upturned mouth, she poured it safe inside.

The Landlord used in the darkness such swear words as he could say For he hated her Highwayman lover - such customers did not pay Dick Turpentine would not pay up, what ever might be said And the landlord feared his pistols, those nine point two three pistols So he fiercely vowed his vengeance... and then went off to bed.

Next morn he was up with the milkman, and round by the barrack square And he told the fiery colonel about his daughter fair And Dick Turpentine, the highwayman, who robbed folks by the score Who came to her by moonlight, and drank his beer by moonlight And shot the moon in the moonlight, close by the old inn door.

"Hide twelve men in your cellar before he comes tonight Dick Turpentine shall never see another morning's light Yes, twelve men - and a sergeant - shall come with you today And let Dick go on drinking, drinking, drinking And when he's drunk my soldiers will catch him without delay."

The soldiers went to the cellar, the landlord went to his bar And Loo went up to her window, to watch for her lover afar And the landlord prepared him a potion which would make him as drunken as pigs Porter and whisky and pale-ale, sherry and creme-de-menthe With a dash of strong sarsaparilla, and a splutter of syrup of figs.

Tlot tlot! She heard in the distance his horse hoofs fast coming near Tlot, tlot! She heard his throat crackle as he stretched out his hand for his beer The landlord rushed to the cellar, and called to the soldiers there "Come, here is the man from the highway, shoot him down in the highway Down like a dog in the highway, before he can say, "It's a bear'."

"Come, come at once," he cried again, "There is no time to wait Come, sergeant, call your men out, and bid them all shoot straight I've mixed him a pungent cocktail that's more than enough for two Dick Turpentine has drunk it, come on men, do you funk it?" The the landlord gasped, "He'll bunk it," for the soldiers were all drunk too.

Yes, Dick had taken the potion straight from his lover's hand And his eyes assumed a brightness that nature never planned And he reeled in Irish fashion, after he had had ten sips And he fell down in the highway, fell all his length in the highway Down like a dog in the highway, with a smile of peace on his lips.

And still, they say, on a Summer's night when the wind makes the eyebrows freeze And the Man in the Moon smiled grimly, with a face like a Cheshire cheese And it's Christmas day in the workhouse where Oliver asked for more A highwayman comes riding, riding, riding Dick Turpentine comes riding up to the old inn door.

"What does he seek?" ask the neighbours, as they stand with frightened stare "Is it Loo, the landlord's daughter, that he hopes to discover there? Or the ghosts of thirteen soldiers, or the landlord who foully planned?" Dick Turpentine's still thirsting, thirsting, thirsting What he wants is the recipe of the cocktail that got him canned.

I think we have uncovered you at last!! Either you are a juvenile posing as an adult (which would explain many things!) or the Song Challenge crowd ran into one of your cousins or nephews back in 2001:

The Case of the Cheerio Highwayman -- TACOMA, Washington (AP) -- Seven-yeaar-old Perley King got into big trouble for driving off in his sister's car in search of his favorite cereal. But he's getting his Cheerios. Early on April 1, while other family members slept, Perley and his dog, Bear, climbed into the car. Relying on skills learned at a computer game, the boy drove three miles in search of a food store. In his drive to fame, Perley navigated some of the city's busiest streets by alternately stepping on the gas pedal, then climbing on the seat to steer, chugging along toward the food store. The spin landed Perley in hot water, but also earned him television appearances and buckets of newspaper ink. His single-minded devotion to his favorite breakfast cereal will also have material rewards. Representatives from Minnesota-based General Mills planned to visit Perley, his parents, Dwayne and Jeanne King, and six brothers and sisters at their Tacoma home this week. It means Perley can look forward to a year's supply of Cheerios and other surprises. He also may receive a new bicycle. "So he'll never have to drive to the store again," said General Mills spokeswoman Liv Lane.

The Highwaytot

I The sun was a glow on the treeline, the wind blew gentle and low, The windows of town were still darkened, looking out on the streets below. Down the road like a spectre at dawning, propped up on his tippy-toes, Young Perley King came driving, Driving, driving! Young Perley King came driving, looking for Cheerios.

II He wore blue Mickey Mouse pajamas, with buttons up to his chin And a pair of Pluto slippers, made out of bunny-skin; And his face carried never a wrinkle; he drove without care in the cold! And he drove that '60 Chevy, His father's rebuilt Chevy! Yes he drove his father's Chevy, Though less than eight years old,

III Over the sidewalk he rambled, then steer'd through a neighbor's yard, Then he'd jump off the seat to the pedals, and rev the engine hard, He sang "Sesame Street" in the morning, and who should be listn'ing there? But Perley's brave companion, Lifelong and true companion, His brave, lifelong companion, A halfbreed mutt called Bear.

IV And dark in musky dawning, a gleam in the dusky night He saw a shopping center, with Albertson's on the right; Though the doors were barred and the lights turned low, His heart forebore to wait, He must open up the market, The dim-lit shut down market! So he opened up the market, With his father's flathead-eight.

V Then the glass it flew like a hurricane, The canned goods flew from their rows, But he never stopped or stumbled, Looking for Cheerios. With his life-long friend behind him, His back-flap blowing free, He climbed down out of that Chevy, The bruised and broken Chevy, Clambered down from the ancient Chevy, And headed for Aisle Three!

VI When the manager got there that morning, With the blue flashing lights at his back, The officers guarding the squadcar, And the shop window laid to wrack, Down the corridors softly they sought him, Their guns at the ready and warm! 'Til they found young Perley sleeping, Curled up, and softly sleeping, They found young Perley sleeping With Bear underneath his arm.

VII There were open boxes around them, There were spilled Cheerios by the score And between old Bear and the highway tot, They had eaten three pounds or more! So he lay there asleep on the market floor, And they shook him and called him in vain! For he'd overdosed on sugar Sweet, nice sugar! He'd flooded his blood with sugar, 'Til the insulin fried his brain!

VIII But sometimes, they say, in the dawn time, When the moonlight still kisses the rose, Like the shade of a thought you can see him, As down the road he goes! With his honest companion beside him, Propped up on his tippy-toes, You can see young Perley driving, His spirit comes a-driving!! You can see young Perley driving And looking for Cheerios.

Well, I suppose that will mean it sees more use than the traditional cermonial food use of swords, ie wedding cakes. This is supposing you're not about to become a Mormon just for the thrill of lots of weddings....

It was excruciating to get that last 100 posts, and now there is a case of verbal diarrhea going on like nobody's business! Sheesh! Mom, you should be proud of these boys. They're living up to your name!

We all have such a time machine already, Amos. It's called "the mind". Most people (and apes) that I know are livin' either in the past or the future most of the time. That makes 'em far less effective in the present, and they keep repeatin' themselves pointlessly. We are all time travellers. You think about the past obsessively, man, and you are there. Take a look at the Middle East, and you'll see exactly how it works.

It amazes me how tangled up these stories get, sometimes--Miller's being a case in point. Joe Wilson's tale, which seemed pretty direct, now is being laden with red herrings and polecat odors by the rabid right-wing talking points trying to generate an alternative reality.

I can't blame them, I like generating alternative realities. But I thought there were rules about it....